


Red Anemones And Crimson Roses

by block_lasagna



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Injury, Depression, Dream Smp, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Flowers, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), I didnt give him a break, Kinda, Mild Blood, Not Beta Read, Reference to Manipulation, Sad Ending, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), So much angst, Suicidal Thoughts, we die like schlatt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/block_lasagna/pseuds/block_lasagna
Summary: tommy had been through a lot, enough to break anyone.the flowers growing from his skin and lungs and his skull are prove so.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), None of that - Relationship, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 14
Kudos: 420





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> crimson roses mean sadness, grief and mourning while red anemones mean death. 
> 
> takes place in an au where if people’s heart breaks flowers begin to grow. petals are easier to chase away than fully formed flowers.

crimson was an odd colour. it held a warmth to it that red couldn’t grasp, but also a somber regret that blue couldn’t fathom. something about it felt lonely in a way that warm colours shouldn’t.

tommy should really hate the colour crimson, seeing as it had stained his clothes more times than he could could count,  
seeing as it sat around his head like a twisted halo, that was more punishment than blessing,  
seeing as it followed him wherever he stepped,  
seeing as it flowed from his mouth in the form of soft, silken rose petals.

he couldn’t bring himself to, though. it had always been there for him.

...

the first time tommy had any inkling that something was wrong, was the day of eret’s betrayal. the day of the final control room.

when he entered the room, he could feel petals tickle his scalp. it was unsettling. nothing was happening.  
eret just wanted to give them supplies, give them a leg up.

he was wrong. he was oh so wrong.

‘it was never meant to be’ ringing clear through the air, the calm before the inevitable storm. at that moment. it meant nothing to them, it was confusing, brain-twisting.  
_what did he mean?_  
they found out soon enough.

the clash of swords and axes and screams of shock and fear. metal scraping against cold floors. metal scraping against bone and gristle, the shock turning to pain and anguish in the rawest sense.

the mad laughter of a newly crowned king and the rattling wheeze of a masked warlord and his men.  
it wasn’t fitting for a funeral at war, wasn’t fitting for the laughter sounding so happy and carefree as they cut down unarmed men, cut down people who were already kneeling and bleeding.

blood pooled on the floor as crimson petals danced in front of blue eyes.

that’s when tommy learned to hide the crimson, hide it behind sharp remarks and biting words  
‘you fucked up.’

...

the second time tommy felt that something wasn’t right was november 16th. the day everything was meant to get better.

it didn’t. _he couldn’t say he was surprised_

~~the crimson wasn’t either, but it was still there for him~~

he felt the ground shudder underneath his feet, felt grass and dirt crumble, forget-me-nots decorating the war torn land in a display that _didn’t feel genuine_.  
~~wilbur wasn’t genuine as of late anyway~~

that day, the crimson crept forward just a little bit more, he could feel blooms scuttling over his back. that day, the blue watched an angel steal away wilbur’s last breath, he watched, helpless as phil plunged a cold, carved blade through the torso of his ~~brother~~ president. 

~~his screams rang silent~~

that day, the crimson clashed with withered black as he stared up at the hurt in the piglin’s eyes, stared up at a man he’d betrayed, stared at someone who made his brain churn with guilt. the crimson clung to the inside of his mouth, all he could taste was ash. that day, the blue dulled slightly as he was told he’d never be a hero, never be regarded as someone who fought for his country. 

bloody crimson fought with withering black.  
a boy with nothing but a sword and a childhood riddled with war and bleeding crimson to his name clashed with a god, a god of warfare and brutality, of loyalty and _absolute reciprocity_ with a withering glare.

the blue was flooded with hurt when he was told to die like a hero  
~~he didn’t die. he thought, maybe, it’d have been better if he had~~

...

the third, and final time which solidified the belief was when he was exiled.  
again.  
by his ~~brother~~ best friend no less. the rain pattering a melancholy rhythm into obsidian and grass.

cold green, shatteringly so, glared down at cracking blue. emerald green, demanding of attention and respect against lost diamond blue, only important if used for armour and weapon.

that was the day the crimson broke free, surging forward to front against pale blond, thorns tearing into scarred skin, sending waves of red rolling down a frowning face, over eyebrows and mingling with rain, or tears, tommy wasn’t sure anymore.  
proud roses peaking through dusty hair, showing to everyone how broken their spitfire was, the engine sputtering, refusing to let itself go quietly. 

cold emeralds fading to worried clover, but the stern expression stayed in place. they had to keep up expressions, especially around the resident horror. barely human beneath a smiling mask.  
~~even if he heard fundy gasp, heard quackity swear under his breath~~

a ghost in yellow, forget-me-nots dancing through the air around him as he floated over to tired crimson and ever-cold nightmares. a chipper greeting was met with a pained, yet not entirely surprised smile, a chipper greeting was met with a curt nod as the pair were ushered into a boat.  
they had travelling to do.

‘selfish’ rings clear in his mind, making the roses worn like a crown around his temple weep.

~~crimson roses sprout the next day, decorating the place that tommy departed from.~~

...

logsteadshire wasn’t exempt from the bloody disease. 

not only did crimson roses flow through the plains biome like a river, red anemones joined the mix, the air sickly sweet and painfully sorrowful. such flowers should create images of love and childish adoration.  
they felt cursed here, sickening.

they clung to the wooden walls of the camp, decorating everything with bright, vermillion hues.  
~~it was similar to the walls of l’manberg in a twisted, disgusting way. enough blood had been shed to paint those walls four times over~~

the scarlet blanket seemed to make ghostbur happy at the very least, soft blue against harsh red. he thought it was pretty.

the blooms writhed even on the beach, even on the tent set up on the dirt mound by the seaside, even on the uncompromising volcanic glass the portal was made from.  
obsidian just made him think of the possibility of home, the possibility of a _way out_

~~his friend told him to stay. so he did.~~

‘it’s not your time to die, yet’

...

seeing logsteadshire go up in smoke, feeling shrapnel pierce his skin, it’s not as upsetting as he thought it’d be.

having his things destroyed hurts, but stood on a great tower, staring down at the rubble lessens that pain.

the flowers in his hair, the vines around his legs and arms, urge him to fight back, their thorns growing curved and sharp, _like dog’s teeth_.

red petals flow through the air. they hang there, in the storm, before fluttering to the ground. as the boy’s look of sorrow is moulded into one of pure anger and the *need* for revenge. the thirst for vengeance is dulled by the realisation that he’s _alone_.

~~he’s all alone, but the flowers are still there~~

...

techno’s little cottage was surprisingly void of any flowers. it was a nice change of pace, the scent of pollen having vanished hours ago, replaced with sharp frost and snow.

he builds himself a little cave, a little raccoon burrow he makes his own  
~~the flowers prove it’s his~~  
the smell is so strong, so sickening it goes right to his stomach. but it makes him feel at home. it shouldn’t, he knows this.  
but it does.

he doesn’t panic when one day, he wakes up and the flowers have covered his eye, which he almost lost. he doesn’t panic when petals begin to decorate his arms, he doesn’t panic when the flowers settle in his lungs, _in his trachea, in the back of his mouth._  
~~they taste bitter~~

yellow concrete is ordained with deep, rich velvety scarlet and smooth green. white, rumpled bedsheets stamped with petals the same shade as the red, rising sun.  
he likes it down here, where it’s just him and the footsteps above. the white noise is welcomed, the stinking sweetness that clings to him isn’t.

...

the god doesn’t throw him out. he’s glad. because without the god he has nothing, he has no home, no place to go back to.

it isn’t his pacing or muttering that gives him away, its the flowers sprouting in the snow, where they shouldn’t grow, it’s the smell of roses that leaks from under his floorboards.  
~~again, the scarlet petals will always be there for him~~

...

and there he is stood, glaring at his ~~best friend~~ rival. a _hostage_ behind him and the god, kept on a leash. kept on a leash as tommy had been, he couldn’t mess up, couldn’t fumble his words or his job, his unwanted title of ‘VP’ would be jeopardised.

ranboo looks ill when he sees the crimson roses adorning his head and face, looks ill when he hears the rasp of his voice, the blue warmer than the petals dusting the floor. it’s unsettling in a terrible, terrifying way that strikes ranboo to his core. the scarlet marking the floor meant only grief, meant only sorrow.  
~~his roses match the ones that haunt l’manberg, though they were torn asunder, unable to link~~  
it’s unsettling, how quiet the spitfire’s sputtering engine has become.

tubbo feels his head spin slightly. when had it gotten this bad? _did it even matter_? he had thought tommy dead, had almost grown sunflowers for a boy who now sided with the enemy.  
~~the same harsh emerald green burned into tired blue, burned into tired crimson~~

harsh words flowed like water from scarred lips, cold, barely moving water that wanted nothing more than to just be left to it’s devices, left to its slow migration. he hadn’t visited. he had left him to _rot_ with lungs full of petals and heart coated by thorns.  
but those thorns had been frozen, made into sickles by biting winds and men in masks that knew nothing but the thrill of the hunt. 

...

he should hate the crimson that he wakes up with in his hair, in his mouth, on his hands, but he can’t bring himself to.  
can’t bring himself to hate something that’s been with him for so long,  
can’t bring himself to _despise_ the very thing that cuts thin gashes into his forehead. every morning and soothes his sobs with soft petals every night. 

the scarlet halo that hung around his head, worn like a crown, marked nothing more than a lifetime of betrayal and hurt.  
techno was given the chance to heal. he had phil, tubbo had _his_ l’manberg. 

and tommy had his flower. he had the crimson roses and red anemones.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a second chapter, from techno’s perspective.

the withered wreath that replaced techno’s crown was unsettling, sure, but it didn’t take up nearly as much space as the flowers on tommy’s face ~~he had phil to thank for that~~ but the thorns still dug in, still poked little punctures into his head.   
the black roses didn’t hold the warmth, nor the sadness of the crimson littering l’manberg. 

they were devoid of anything else than mourning.

techno didn’t hate his wither roses per say, he had a strange admiration for them, a strange love for something that reminded him that he’d been betrayed by people he deemed friends, back in that ravine they once had called ‘ _home_ ’.  
the wither roses were annoying, but no more annoying than the voices that rattled around his brain,   
no more annoying than the people he insisted he was in the wrong from the moment he appeared in the server.

he’d always loved the nether, the warmth and the competitive nature of it all. sure, the smp wasn’t really any different, there was just more at steak.

...

techno remembers being invited into pogtopia, he remembers being told about how they’d been exiled, how they’d been chased out by jschlatt, who, by all means, had won the election. 

~~he remembers seeing the ravine covered in blue forget-me-not petals~~

he remembered wilbur’s immediate distrust, the poison the man spat as blue flowers decorated his hair, remembers the budding madness that _lurked right beneath the surface_.   
he remembers that he used to think of it like a game of chess. if they took out jschlatt, they’d win.

~~it really wasn’t a game~~

he remembers tommy vouching for him, ~~it feels bitter and tainted now~~ , saying they could trust him with bright blue eyes that held same fire as the nether.   
the same fire as his home.   
the same home his piglin heart yearned for, some nights.

the look in wilbur’s eyes should’ve been warning enough, but the blood god was nothing but persistent after he was given a job, he’d complete it. and his job was now to topple an entire government.  
he couldn’t say he wasn’t excited, _that’d be a lie_.

...

the red festival.  
he remembers it like it was yesterday. it was valuable information after all. especially when he was called up to the stage. called up to stand in front of an emperor and his right hand man and a _child_.

~~the eyes on him from the crowd are so much worse than the voices that scream for him to kill the child, trapped in his own coffin~~

he stalled for ever so long, stalled for as long as he could, but the eyes on his back and the emperor thats _grinning_ at him. you can only stall for so long.  
the blood god is no different. 

so he pulled the trigger. he pulled the trigger and took as many of those bastards down with him as possible. 

...

the roses hadn’t made themselves truly known until november 16th. and when they had, it was excruciating.  
not only the thorns digging into his face and his head, but also the realisation that _these people had used him like a tool_. 

~~those damned forget-me-not petals kept coming back, kept fluttering through the air like wisps were almost ironic now, he supposed~~.

the dancing blue petals didn’t seem to mind that the ground was trembling from the force of an explosion.   
the blue petals didn’t seem to mind that they drifted past a man, forced to skewer his own son with a shining blade.   
the petals didn’t seem to ming that the sky was grey with smoke.

they didn’t seem to mind the screams of the withers.

he couldn’t say that that he was annoyed that the wither roses adorning him made him even more intimidating. if anything, it was a plus for him, the voices found it entertaining when tommy stared at him with terrified eyes ~~there was guilt in there too, but he was too angry to look for that~~. 

he’d announced that tommy should die a hero, because he’d hate to hear those stories of theseus become true, especially when the protagonist of those stories met such a terrible ending.  
~~he refused to believe he’d grown fond of the fiery boy that was so damn stubborn.~~

he’d noticed the hurt in phil’s eyes, however, when the man saw the black petals and sharp thorns and the unbridled pain that clung to red eyes.

~~neither of them noticed the red petals that dripped from tommy’s mouth~~  
~~~~

_~~tommy didn’t die.~~ _

...

phil finds techno curled up by the chests under his house, hands clawing at petals and wracking with sobs because the flowers wont leave him _alone._

...

making the turtle farm with phil was refreshing, easy banter flowing between the two friends as those crumbled black roses receded slightly, bit by bit, day by day.

phil carefully pruned the roses when they grew too close to his eyes.   
chuckling at the digs that the piglin made about how ugly the roses were.  
l ~~they weren’t. if anything, he thought them quite beautiful.~~

it was nice, laughing with a close friend. it was nicer knowing that the man wouldn’t abandon him at the first sign of trouble.  
wouldn’t use him like a weapon.

...

he remembers hearing about tommy’s exile. tommy really was becoming theseus, chased from a country he had helped build, had gotten people to join and fight for against a _god_.  
they’d lost, of course.   
but tommy, ever the _hero_ had given up his discs to the god.   
techno didn’t understand why two lives want enough for dream, but he couldn’t exactly poke fingers when he’s ‘The Blood God’, known for cutting down thousands without batting an eye.

he doesn’t understand why tommy had to put himself on the line time and time and time again, when he truly gets barely anything from it.

he didn’t understand why he’d give everything for a country and then he remembered phil.  
he remembered the angel of death that had became one of his closest, strongest friends.  
black feathers and black roses. fitting, no?

he’d visited one day, overhearing ~~wilbur~~ ghostbur tell tommy that nobody would laugh at him. when he spotted the youngest on the server, hair matted and face half covered by scarlet blooms which directly contrasted against blue eyes  
~~he swore that his eyes used to be brighter~~.  
so, he did the only thing he could think to, he laughed, and hid his worry under remarks that tommy couldn’t unfurl.

...

the butcher army came knocking one day. quackery and tubbo weren’t surprising.  
ranboo was _~~seems that peer pressure still lingers in l’manberg.~~_

they attack him. they attack him after he’d isolated himself turning over a ‘new leaf’. 

he cant say he isnt angry, because he is. 

he’s angry that they got ghostbur, sweet, naive ghostbur to lead them to him.  
he only gets angrier when they threaten his _horse_. quackity threatening carl, who, frankly, had no stakes in this argument.

it only got worse from there.  
~~his anger bubbled up even more when he found out that they’d put phil under house arrest~~

he was forced into an *execution*, one without a trial, one that didn’t have a trial. 

history didn’t seem to be a long piece of string, where people learned from the past, _oh no_ , the string is tangled and matted. it’s messy and they just don’t _learn_.

they announced that he was an enemy to their country which sold out their own people.   
he couldn’t fucking stand the smug grin quackity was giving him as the anvil plummeted, from where it was suspended.

_the voices cackle when technoblade, the blood god, doesn’t die._

~~he ends up hacking the smug smile from quackity’s face, taking two teeth and a life from him in the process.~~

...

things were quiet for a while. he had his cottage and his turtles and the enderman which he just kept about. 

but then the roses started to grow.  
they weren’t black and withering, they were a rich, deep, silken red. the same colour as freshly shed blood. they were assuredly _not his._

he didn’t know what he expected to find, but a hollowed out room full of flowers, yellow concrete, and stolen items in chests. 

he didn’t expect to find a tarnished old bell and a messily made bed, cluttered with petals and thorns and _surely that couldn’t be comfortable_.

he didn’t expect to find a boy, curled up in an all too familiar coat, blinded by roses and anemones, undisturbed by the sickeningly sweet scent that danced through the air, snaking around his hands and his throat and his heart and his lungs like an eel, sending painful jolts of electricity through techno.

the jolts only got more painful when he noticed the vines that wrap around tommy’s hands and arms and legs and he _still doesn’t have shoes_.

...

the ‘reunion’ between tubo and tommy was anything but idea, the pair of them baring their metaphorical teeth, glaring.  
tubbo rattled out excuse after excuse, _reason after reason._  
tommy spat petals, spat thorns and poison with a rasping tone.

he got a few of his things back though. that was a plus.

he can’t say that seeing a certain masked nightmare was.  
he can’t say it made him comfortable when the roses on the face of the boy next to him grew just slightly, grew just enough to be visible, just enough to make his skin crawl.

so he told dream he couldn’t have the spitfire. it put him on a hit list, but he was already on one, whats another?  
he’d hung that IOU over his head. a fool’s move. but, if the blood god was a fool he wasn’t surprised.  
~~he did get his roses for a reason.~~

dream hadn’t taken the bait, and techno wasn’t surprised. he was, however, unsettled by the implications of that.

 ~~the two gods were playing chess, and the whole server knew that~~  
...

he grew, much like his roses did, to love the flowers that he wore as a crown,  
they proved he was so much stronger than he had believed himself, and sure, while some would see the thorns digging into his skin like daggers as a weakness, they did make him more imposing than before.  
the voices loves to remind him, phil didn’t like them though.

techno thought himself lucky, the flowers he wore as a crown could be fended off, could be pushed to the side when phil laughed at something he said.  
maybe he had tommy too, the kid was annoying, but he was funny.

~~it was upsetting to realise that the boy didn’t seem to think that way of anyone.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come scream at me for writing too much angst on tumblr- blocklasagna

**Author's Note:**

> buckle up guys! this is my first work im putting up here. the formatting is probably going to be a little weird because this was written on mobile
> 
> come scream at me on tumblr for writing so much angst-blocklasagna


End file.
